is for your people.
Now when she sees I seek alone
She comes to me, she asks
and focused your view,
pieces of me
were visible in
Firmly clutched yet
to the carrier.
As if picking up grief – in this case – was also picking up the mirror I kept trying to wipe clear, and turning it around . . . Pulling my shoulders back like a mother would tell a child that grew before the other kids, and boldly holding up my mirror like I could Say Anything.Read More Grief Love
I put my fingers to my solar plexus and am not sure if it’s the flattening of hands I need or a boring inward. Who needs healing today.Read More what happened when I shed the cloak my mother gave me
For all of the little girls sitting in chairs.
Waiting for all of the little girls sitting on stoops.
This past week – in my dis-ease – I looked out the same window that Chris spent many a day gazing through, as his body broke down. I remembered his silence, his privacy. I converged with it a little further, as I too feared from within my body. And I too said nothing.Read More a private grief
Each hand on the other elbow. Heavy cotton, the only thing holding her in. Enshrouding her. She watched them go.Read More rock me mama
Death is all around us at the present moment. Covid is taking people we know, or it is feeding fears of our own death. For me, Will is a reminder that death can be a celebration, even when the circumstances argue otherwise.Read More In Celebration of Dying Young
Twitter has this beautiful imperfection and permanence to it; you cannot edit a tweet. So writing a story on Twitter – especially the way I write, compelled – is a particular kind of challenge in terms of awareness and seizing the flow.